man to
man, but from generation to generation,--is the predominant means by which
this development of consciousness is attained. It is a pretty support we
derive from the enemy. But mark the serpent in the grass--"the
adjustment of the individual and the race to external reality." The real
aim of evolution is purely external, the adjustment of man to
environment; consciousness has value in so far as it promotes this
adjustment. Flatly, to me, this is pure nonsense, a putting of the
cart before the horse, a vulgar _hysteron-proteron_, none the less
execrable because it is the working principle not of a single man, but
of the whole of soctety to-day. Consciousness, I hold, is the supremely
valuable thing, and progress, evolution, civilisation, etc., are only
significant in so far as they afford nourishment to it. Literature is
the self-sufficient fruit of this consciousness, I say; the world says it
is a mere means of promoting our physical adjustment. You see I take up
lightly the huge enmity of the world.

This is wild stuff to put into a journalistic letter, no doubt. If I were
writing a treatise I would undertake to show that this difference of view
in regard to consciousness and physical adjustment is the oldest and most
serious debate of human intelligence. Saint Catharine, Thomas a Kempis,
and all those religious fanatics who counted the world well lost, made a
god of consciousness and thought very little of physical adjustment. The
debate in their day was an equal one. To-day it is all on one side--and
_vae victis_! I cry out--why should I not?--as one of the conquered, and I
am charitable enough to advise another not to enter the combat. It is a
poor consolation to wrap yourself in your virtue, mount a little pedestal,
set your hand on your heart, and spout with Lucan: _The winning cause for
the gods, but the vanquished for me_! Sometimes we begin to wonder
whether, after all, the world may not be right, and at that moment the
wind begins to blow pretty chill through our virtue.

VIII

PHILIP TO JESSICA

MY DEAR MISS DOANE:

Is my suspicion right? Was my last letter to you really a tangle of crude
ideas? That has grown to be my way, until I begin to wonder whether the
horrid noises of Park Row may not have thrown my mind a little out of
balance. For my strength lay in silence and solitude. It is hard for me to
establish any sufficient bond between my intellectual life and my personal
relationships,